Electric City: Going for Broke, Part 3
The weekend in New York did not go as expected, but good things emerged from the trip nevertheless. The most important of which was a sense of clarity about what we do and do not want or need in an apartment and the realization that a change of plans isn't always a negative experience. Dobler and I continue to live in our Pennsylvania hometowns, and while it appears that we're in the same place as before we left on Friday, much has changed for the better.
We didn't get to view even one apartment. Originally scheduled to look at a studio and a one-bedroom in Washington Heights (WaHi) on Saturday morning, our plans began to crumble even before reaching Dobler's house Friday night. Jay "The Studio King" called with bad news: the one-bedroom had just been leased, and the landlord of the studio was refusing to show it until Monday. I asked the Studio King to beg the super, who refused to answer his phone, and he assured me that he was scrambling to find us something to look at. I was to call him the next morning for an update.
While waiting for the King's new findings, we arrived in WaHi via the George Washington Bridge and decided to get a feel for the neighborhood. As expected, it was largely Latino, except for the area around 168th Street, where New York-Presbyterian Hospital is located. Broadway bisects the area, with more upscale housing to the west in "Hudson Heights" and more ethnic businesses and smaller apartment complexes to the east. We viewed all of this on our 21-block walk up Broadway from 159th to 181st to meet the Studio King.
Unfortunately, he brought with him more disappointing news -- both buildings had stairs at the entrance. All was not lost, however, because we finally met in person, and he could actually see what and who he was working with. The Studio King explained the narrow market -- 1.6 percent vacancy rate -- and said he'd keep searching, even if he had have his knights scouring the countryside sending us photos via e-mail. He also said he wouldn't place us in a neighborhood where he wouldn't want his sister or mother to be, and he seemed very genuine and determined, even for a money-raping broker.
This segues into our next experience at Manhattan Apartments. As I had been warned, the agency is very large, dealing with 90 percent of Manhattan real estate, and impersonal. They sent us out with a "show-er," Donald, to look at three prospective $800 studios -- all in the same building. We had just driven more than 100 blocks downtown, only to turn around and drive 90 more back to Harlem, where we discovered that the building that we had been assured was accessible clearly was not. We spent the next 45 minutes in the car while Donald explained demanding landlords and paying $1 million in cash as a co-op deposit.
By the time we checked into our hotel, I was teetering on the edge of a meltdown which was exacerbated by disappointment, sleep-deprivation and a headache. The trip was seeming more and more unproductive -- even if there was a street fair outside the Hilton -- and I knew we were going home without an apartment. After an Excedrin, some pizza (a search which revealed how frustrated and disappointed my mother had also become), and an hour's rest, however, I was somewhat stable again, and around 6:30 p.m. Dobler and I left for the Village, where we would spend the next seven hours.
I really don't know where the time went, because we didn't do too terribly much that evening. We took the M5 to Eighth Street, and I showed him where I lived during my two summers at NYU. Then we sat in Washington Square Park for over an hour talking and trying to think of a new plan. I had to force myself to leave the park because I could've stayed for hours, but we had Thai food to eat. Kai Kai 3, the tiny Thai bistro on Carmine Street, is now under a different name, however, and the pad thai did not compare to the former's. Strangely enough, though, The Grey Dog's Coffee three doors down proved to be nostalgic not for me but for Dobler, who had visited the candle-lit coffee house on his trip to the city in 2000. Big city. Small world.
Dobler and I made our way to be bus stop, but as we waited for our ride we became distracted pointing out buildings where we'd like to live. Across the street we spotted a doorman, so we decided to indulge our curiosity. The building was a co-op, but the man sent us down the street to 45 Christopher. As we peered through the revolving door into the marble lobby, we were met by another doorman, Ken, who welcomed us into "his building." Ken is an entry in himself, but after 40 minutes of talking, both Dobler and I had a more solid, albeit idealistic, view of our future, and I have a strange optimism in his vows that we'll make it. Ken turned our trip completely around, and we left his building hoping to be as incredible of people as he believes we are.
Returning to the hotel after 1 a.m., we crashed, but were up and checked-out by 11 the next morning. Before we came home, we decide to drive through Queens to see if it -- Astoria especially -- could work for us. The borough is very nice and much more quiet and residential, but after experiencing the commute to and from Manhattan, where I'd most likely be working, I don't think I can physically handle it. The neighborhoods are beautiful, however, and if I was able-bodied, I'd have no problem residing there. But I am not, and I need the quaintness of Manhattan -- the structure, the grid, the closeness, the transportation. Driving over the Queensborough Bridge to Midtown, the city never looked so comforting and, ironically, small.
So what's our back-up plan? The one thing that's been strongly reinforced throughout this trip is the necessity of having a job before renting. But that requirement is a Catch-22: you can't afford rent without a job, and you can't find a job unless you're in the city. Tentatively Aaron and I are fine-tuning plans to perhaps sublet an apartment or room for one to three months. These months will give us time to find work without the pressure of a 12-month lease, while also giving the city a test drive. In addition, even though we will be spending a few months' rent on a sublet, our jobs will hopefully earn us enough money to break-even financially by the time we need to move, at which point we'll have the employment needed to help us rent our own place.
We didn't get to view even one apartment. Originally scheduled to look at a studio and a one-bedroom in Washington Heights (WaHi) on Saturday morning, our plans began to crumble even before reaching Dobler's house Friday night. Jay "The Studio King" called with bad news: the one-bedroom had just been leased, and the landlord of the studio was refusing to show it until Monday. I asked the Studio King to beg the super, who refused to answer his phone, and he assured me that he was scrambling to find us something to look at. I was to call him the next morning for an update.
While waiting for the King's new findings, we arrived in WaHi via the George Washington Bridge and decided to get a feel for the neighborhood. As expected, it was largely Latino, except for the area around 168th Street, where New York-Presbyterian Hospital is located. Broadway bisects the area, with more upscale housing to the west in "Hudson Heights" and more ethnic businesses and smaller apartment complexes to the east. We viewed all of this on our 21-block walk up Broadway from 159th to 181st to meet the Studio King.
Unfortunately, he brought with him more disappointing news -- both buildings had stairs at the entrance. All was not lost, however, because we finally met in person, and he could actually see what and who he was working with. The Studio King explained the narrow market -- 1.6 percent vacancy rate -- and said he'd keep searching, even if he had have his knights scouring the countryside sending us photos via e-mail. He also said he wouldn't place us in a neighborhood where he wouldn't want his sister or mother to be, and he seemed very genuine and determined, even for a money-raping broker.
This segues into our next experience at Manhattan Apartments. As I had been warned, the agency is very large, dealing with 90 percent of Manhattan real estate, and impersonal. They sent us out with a "show-er," Donald, to look at three prospective $800 studios -- all in the same building. We had just driven more than 100 blocks downtown, only to turn around and drive 90 more back to Harlem, where we discovered that the building that we had been assured was accessible clearly was not. We spent the next 45 minutes in the car while Donald explained demanding landlords and paying $1 million in cash as a co-op deposit.
By the time we checked into our hotel, I was teetering on the edge of a meltdown which was exacerbated by disappointment, sleep-deprivation and a headache. The trip was seeming more and more unproductive -- even if there was a street fair outside the Hilton -- and I knew we were going home without an apartment. After an Excedrin, some pizza (a search which revealed how frustrated and disappointed my mother had also become), and an hour's rest, however, I was somewhat stable again, and around 6:30 p.m. Dobler and I left for the Village, where we would spend the next seven hours.
I really don't know where the time went, because we didn't do too terribly much that evening. We took the M5 to Eighth Street, and I showed him where I lived during my two summers at NYU. Then we sat in Washington Square Park for over an hour talking and trying to think of a new plan. I had to force myself to leave the park because I could've stayed for hours, but we had Thai food to eat. Kai Kai 3, the tiny Thai bistro on Carmine Street, is now under a different name, however, and the pad thai did not compare to the former's. Strangely enough, though, The Grey Dog's Coffee three doors down proved to be nostalgic not for me but for Dobler, who had visited the candle-lit coffee house on his trip to the city in 2000. Big city. Small world.
Dobler and I made our way to be bus stop, but as we waited for our ride we became distracted pointing out buildings where we'd like to live. Across the street we spotted a doorman, so we decided to indulge our curiosity. The building was a co-op, but the man sent us down the street to 45 Christopher. As we peered through the revolving door into the marble lobby, we were met by another doorman, Ken, who welcomed us into "his building." Ken is an entry in himself, but after 40 minutes of talking, both Dobler and I had a more solid, albeit idealistic, view of our future, and I have a strange optimism in his vows that we'll make it. Ken turned our trip completely around, and we left his building hoping to be as incredible of people as he believes we are.
Returning to the hotel after 1 a.m., we crashed, but were up and checked-out by 11 the next morning. Before we came home, we decide to drive through Queens to see if it -- Astoria especially -- could work for us. The borough is very nice and much more quiet and residential, but after experiencing the commute to and from Manhattan, where I'd most likely be working, I don't think I can physically handle it. The neighborhoods are beautiful, however, and if I was able-bodied, I'd have no problem residing there. But I am not, and I need the quaintness of Manhattan -- the structure, the grid, the closeness, the transportation. Driving over the Queensborough Bridge to Midtown, the city never looked so comforting and, ironically, small.
So what's our back-up plan? The one thing that's been strongly reinforced throughout this trip is the necessity of having a job before renting. But that requirement is a Catch-22: you can't afford rent without a job, and you can't find a job unless you're in the city. Tentatively Aaron and I are fine-tuning plans to perhaps sublet an apartment or room for one to three months. These months will give us time to find work without the pressure of a 12-month lease, while also giving the city a test drive. In addition, even though we will be spending a few months' rent on a sublet, our jobs will hopefully earn us enough money to break-even financially by the time we need to move, at which point we'll have the employment needed to help us rent our own place.
posted by Claire C. Cake at 8:47 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home